


I Will Follow You Into The Dark

by HoneyYouShouldSeeMeInACrown



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angsty Tendancies, BAMF John, F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:00:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyYouShouldSeeMeInACrown/pseuds/HoneyYouShouldSeeMeInACrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post Reichenbach) The pain of his best friends death sends John on a dangerous path of vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Safe & Sound

**Author's Note:**

> (Currently Unbeta'd)
> 
> Don't you dare look out your window darling, Everything's on fire, The war outside our door keeps raging on, Hold onto this lullaby, Even when the music's gone

_Don't you dare look out your window darling, Everything's on fire, The war outside our door keeps raging on, Hold onto this lullaby, Even when the music's gone_

* * *

Tick, tock, tick, tock. John stared up at the clock displayed high upon the pale, cracked wall of his office. Despite how hard he tried to deduce anything from the time piece nothing seemed to be revealed. Constant efforts to figure out how it was manufactured or even why it was two minutes slow proved fruitless, heck he’d even settle for being able to figure out why it had a chip on the left hand side, more than likely there was a correlation between the damage and the speed issue but he was unable to imagine a detailed reason why. Sherlock would be able…no, he  _would_ _’_ _ve_  been able to figure it out…past tense….the blonde cut off that train of thought almost instantly. Sherlock wasn’t here, no his eccentric flatmate was…gone, long gone. With a sad sigh John settled back into his uncomfortable leather chair waiting for the day to end.

 

A small cough directed the doctor’s attention back to the front of his desk where an old almost owl like woman peered over her spectacles watching him with a mixture of irritation and concern. “Are you okay Doctor Watson? You seem…distracted…again.” Mrs Jenkins asked. John coughed and sat forward, his arms falling to rest on his mahogany desk, spacing out had become far too often an occurrence. “Sorry Mrs Jenkins, yes the chest congestion can be a side effect of the new medication. I suggest you refrain from taking the new pills for a week and then come back so that we can assess the situation further.” He flashed a false smile at the woman as she stood from the desk and departed the room.

 

Dull, Boring, Normal. The three words reverberated around his mind merging with the constant tick-tocking of the fractured clock, fractured like John. He groaned in irritation and rubbed at his tired eyes, the product of yet another night disturbed by images of a raven curled man crashing down through the air and slamming into the cold, hard ground, the dreams as always accompanied by the familiar warring emotions of anger and heartbreak. For the first few weeks after the fall he’d been certain the despair would always win out, the doctor barely even exiting the flat to do anything less than visit the black tombstone that heralded the death of the most brilliant man he’d ever known or to make his enforced (and unwanted) visits to his therapist. Yet over the last few weeks he’d been waking up more feeling more, angry, more confused. Why?. What possible reason made Sherlock think John should have been put through that?. Why did he have to see his best friend die? And for that matter why did his best friend jump?.

 

“Come on Watson. Get it together” he hissed to himself. Use the work as a distraction. Swivelling around he turned his attention to the ancient  _‘_ _best the NHS can afford!_ _’_ , computer which stood on his desk. As he waited for the sluggish computer to process he found himself glancing at the frustrating clock once more. Maybe it fell…no too obvious Watson…stop this, you aren’t him. He cursed under his breath and turned his face back to the screen, keep yourself occupied, hmm updating the patients file, that would be a good start, he moved the mouse across the desktop to click upon the required file. No movement. “Oh come on”. Another swipe, nothing. “This is /just/ what I need today.” A third more furious swipe followed, the pointer on the screen flickered on and off in an almost mocking way. “Not going to work are you. Fine!” John ripped the mouse from it’s connection to the computer and threw it across the room. “Oh for fucks sake” he muttered dropping his head into his hands, his frustration bubbling over to the surface in a manner he was fairly certain he’d be embarrassed about later.

 

A knock on the office door brought his attention back to the present. With his best impersonation of a smile in place, something he always put on as it was rarely genuine these days, ever the improving actor he was these days. Sherlock would be... _would_ _’_ _ve_  been proud. He pushed the thought away and sat up straight. “Come in”. he murmured his tone more tired than he’d wanted it to sound.

 

The diminutive frame of Sarah Sawyer crossed the threshold, the corner of her lips turned downwards and her eyes sympathetic. Oh no, John knew this look, he didn’t need to be a genius like Sherlock to see the pity radiating from his boss/one time on-off girlfriend. Automatically his posture became tense, his back rigid with the discomfort. He could handle the anger of those who felt betrayed by Sherlock, he could manage the disgust people aimed at him thinking that he was involved in the deceit, heck he was just about managing to withstand his own crushing guilt for not being on that roof to help Sherlock fight, but he could not and would not allow himself to become a pathetic, worthless has-been crying on the sofa and letting himself waste away.

 

“Look Sarah I know why you’re here. I’m fine. Everything is  _fine_ ” He closed his eyes for a moment, what was it Sherlock had taught him about body language…..being closed off was often indicative of a liar. With great effort he relaxed back into the chair, though his hands stayed clenched and out of sight as he forced his eyes open and smiled at the woman. “I really am okay Sarah”

 

The sceptical look that filled the woman’s eyes scuppered John’s attempts at keeping calm, with a groan he sunk back into the chair to await the shower of verbal pity that he knew lurked behind the tightly pursed lips. “John……I saw the paper this morning. I know what day it is…” She raised a hand defensively to silence John as the man opened his mouth to protest. “Just hear me out okay? It’s six months to the day since Sherlock died, I know how close you were to him, perhaps you should take the rest of the day off”

 

John huffed in agitation and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, he should probably get it cut, but simple things like a beauty regime just hadn’t seemed as important these days. “Sarah I do not need nor do I want to take the time off. I would much rather be working” Perhaps it had been a bit sharp but he was more than a little tired of the constant storm of pity that seemed surrounded him. He’d been through a war and got shot for God’s sake, he could handle this.

 

Sarah crossed her arms and stood straight, a stern look forming upon her face. “Well I’m not asking you I’m telling. It’s already sorted, now you have no more patients for the rest of the day so you might as well just head home”. She only stayed to watch an incredulous look on John’s facebefore she’d disappeared out of the door.

 

The blonde growled in irritation and clambered up from his seat, Sarah’s intentions may have been good but they were also downright infuriating. He ripped his coat off the hook and stormed into the reception, ignoring Sarah’s attempts at an apology as he stomped out into the thumping rain.


	2. Illuminated

_Suddenly my eyes are open, Everything comes into focus, oh, We are all illuminated, Lights are shining on our faces, blinding_

* * *

 

The bitter winds swirled up a maelstrom around John as he forced his way through the winding London streets, rain pelting his weary face, why couldn’t people just leave him, he was dealing with it…well coping at least. Turning onto the main road he stopped his movements, gazing up the road for any sight of a cab with little success. It was never hard to find a cab when Sherlock had been beside him, simple things had always been forgotten, not now. He laughed bitterly at the opposition of the thought to his life now, he spent all his time focusing on the small things to avoid the painful thoughts of the large detective shaped hole in his life.

 

With a sigh he began to walk, walking would be better for his mental state, a distraction. The chance of clearing his mind outweighed the danger of catching a cold, it helped….a little anyway. All around him people rushed by, umbrellas raised in the air in vain attempts to keep dry, a few months ago there would’ve been stares, whispers, all of them aimed at him. Coward, liar, fake, idiot, all of them and more constantly aimed at the one time friend of the mysterious dead detective.

 

But now it had changed, now he’d become old news, people had gotten bored of their story, the one that played horrifyingly behind John’s eyelids everytime he lay his head down to rest, his nightmare. No one cared of the man they’d dubbed the great ‘fraud’ anymore, even less of his hoodwinked companion. Even the journalists had stopped pestering him for interviews these days, although John suspected Greg had played a part in halting them, his way of an ‘apology’ for letting himself be swayed by Anderson and Donovan’s suggestions. He still saw the Detective Inspector for the odd pint but the effortless comradely they had once shared had been distorted into an uneasy friendship, the guilt of what happened that day weighing heavily on them both.

 

The noise of midday London pounded hard in John’s ears. In the time before the great consulting detective had flounced into his life the blonde had been so oblivious to the tiny details of life, it all passed him by at an alarming speed. But Sherlock had changed everything, he wasn’t so ignorant to everything around him anymore. Now he saw everything, he’d finally begun to observe the world around him. God how he wished he had that day in the lab…maybe he could’ve stopped it all before it was too late.

 

John leapt onto the pavement quickly as a car hurried past sending a puddle of water crashing over him. “For God’s sake” he snapped. “Just my luck”. The momentary distraction proving to be more than a little regrettable as his surroundings became known to his unfocused mind. Ice flooded his veins as his gaze swept along the road ahead, merely a hundred yards from where he stood loomed the archaic structure of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Hundreds of memories flooded his mind at the sight of the building he’d once spent so many hours in late night laughs in the labs, snatches of arguments relating to the storage of cadavers in the Baker Street fridge, but most imposing of all piercing blue eyes boring into his own as treacherous words were replayed. Fake.

 

If John was completely honest with himself it was this which still hurt him so terribly. That in his very last moments Sherlock had tried to decimate the life they had together by claiming that it had all been lies. No. He’d never believe that, not even for a second…only he had…he’d had that one second of doubt at bloody Kitty Reilly’s flat, just one brief second, enough to fill him with crushing amounts of guilt throughout this past half a year. But he’d said worse hadn’t he? In the lab, Sherlock had never been a machine…god how he cursed himself for those words. His idle mind often wondered if Sherlock had believed John thought that of him.

 

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, there was no way he was going to allow the sight of a bloody building to send a wrecking ball careening into his self-control. He’d been through so much worse than this in the past. For Christ’s sake he was Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers! He’d been bloody well shot!.

 

For a brief second the familiar whistle of shells and splatter of gunfire filled the air around him, the sounds oddly comforting to the silent doctor. That was what he knew, war, danger, this was what kept him calm, kept him fighting, kept him strong. Forcing his eyes open once more he turned away from the scene, the place where he and Sherlock had staged their final fight together and marched on home to Baker Street.

 

Most days upon his arrival back home he’d head into the ground floor flat and share a nice hot cuppa with his landlady finding some enjoyment in the company of the woman he’d grown to love like a mother. Sometimes she’d broach the subject of the detective and very occasionally John would reply, and for just a short while before he made an excuse they’d reminisce. But that was the last thing he fancied today, Sarah sending him home would be tame compared to that which he expected from Mrs Hudson. He could see it in the way she looked at him, like he was constantly about to break down into tears at any moment. She was wrong of course, he hadn’t cried once since the fall, he was both a soldier and a doctor, every single day of his adult life he dealt with loss, it was his duty to keep strong…even when the one lost was the single most important person in his life.

 

Had been, he amended mentally, the most important person in his life now was himself. He exhaled sadly and yanked off his soaking coat, hanging it up besides the great woollen one. A gift (and curse) from Mycroft. One hand ran over the now clean coat remembering the many times he’d seen it being pulled on in a flourish. Stop it John. Just stop. He span and began to trudge up the stairs, shaking his head as he stepped into the messyflat.

 

The once homely clutter of 221b these days seemed somewhat haunting in the mid-morning light. Despite Mrs Hudson's protestations he hadn't cleaned up Sherlock's things, experiments excepted, even in a grieving state the idea of a decaying sheepskin brain in the fridge was less than enchanting. The rest of the departed detective’s possessions however still stood in their rightful place as though the man had merely popped out on a case. The microscope which John had so often seem him hunched over still sat on the kitchen table, unknown slides decorating the surface of the table around it. The leather chair once often frequented still held the elegant violin in place, the now silent instrument so often responsible for filling the flat with delicious (sometimes annoying, juding by the time of day) melodies. And the perhaps the most haunting of all, the skull.

 

John had spent a lot of time simply staring at the off white object laying on the mantelpiece in the months since the fall, an old friend is all Sherlock would tell him when he pressed for an answer, as time passed it didn't seem to matter anymore, the skull became unimportant, Sherlock barely even noticed when Mrs Hudson hid it anymore since he had gained John as it’s replacement. Perhaps that's what he'd become now, obsolete, just like the skull. With a sad exhale he slumped down onto the sofa, an eyebrow raising in confusion when a white box slipped out from beneath the cushions. 

 

The doctor sat up straight and reached out to recover the fallen item. A near hysterical laugh escaped his lips as he saw the contents of the box, "This is most definitely a three patch problem" he whispered to himself. A fire raged in John’s chest at the sight, something within him finally snapping. The patches had always been the bane of so many arguments between himself and his best friend, Sherlock moaning about John obsessively buying them, pointless he’d said repeatedly. All he had wanted was to keep him alive, alive and well, but no, that was too much for Sherlock bloody Holmes.

 

A roar of anger released from John’s very core as he launched the box across the room, feeling a small amount of satisfaction well within him as it collided with a mug and sent it crashing to the floor. The crescendo of the shatter unleashing the rage that John had held within him since the fall, a sudden urge to break things becoming overwhelming.

 

He gripped his hands under the coffee table and tossed it over without a single care for the fate of the items lay upon it. "Why did you do this!". Sherlock's long unused chair was sent crashing onto its side, the pristine violin sliding off into a stack of paperwork, scattering files everywhere. "Why couldn't you tell me! Something! Anything!". Glass shards spilled across the wooden floor as he smashed in the interior of the kitchen door. "Didn’t you care what it would do to me?!"

 

The slight of a familiar implement caught John's eye as he stalked towards the desk. Reaching a hand out he lifted the very same riding crop he'd often seen his flatmate...former flatmate use to experiment on bruising patterns with. John bellowed angrily and slammed the crop onto the table sending more papers flying across the room, the sound of the crack incredibly satisfying for the infuriated doctor.

 

For the next few minutes sound of smashes and smacks were all that filled the air as John destroyed many of the items that he had both revered and hated for the past six months. Broken tea cups and torn papers covered the floor in in a cascade of chaos, John's inner turmoil being taken out upon the small flat. "Why Sherlock?!" he cried out, "I could've helped you!".

 

The former captain stilled as his gaze locked with a pair of hollow eyes. "Or is that all I was to you?...a replacement fucking skull!". Before he could even comprehend his own movements, fragments of bone scattered across the wood, the jaw of the once proudly displayed cranium dislocating completely.

 

John took a sharp breath as he gazed upon the devastation he'd caused to his home. He sank to his knees exhaling shakily "I could've helped you Sherlock. And you left me here to do nothing..."

 

Silence fell upon the trashed flat as the doctor dropped his head into his hands, the grief settling upon him once more, god he felt so utterly useless and there was nothing they could do but sit here and go through the motions…or was there?

 

 John raised his head, fire flaring in his eyes for the first time since the fall. "No I won't become this. I won't become a bloody waster. I won’t wait anymore" he forced himself to his feet and puffed out his chest, a decision forming solidly in his mind. "I couldn't help you back then Sherlock but I can do now. He may of won the battle but I damn well won’t let Moriarty win the war, I swear it"

 

With the declaration it was mere moments before John had pulled on his coat and swept out of the door.

    


	3. Stop Crying Your Heart Out

  
_Cos all of the stars are fading away, Just try not to worry you'll see them some day. Take what you need and be on your way. And stop crying your heart out_

* * *

Silence hung heavy between them as the two men stared at each other, each sat stiff in the expensive leather chairs, both stubborn enough to not break the silence. To speak first would put them at the others judgement.

 

With anyone but a Holmes', John would win the battle everytime. His stubbornness had become almost legendary in his army days, his fellow soldiers knowing not to mess with Captain Watson when he had his mind set to something. But in Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes he'd found a tougher adversary. There was no swaying a Holmes when he was determined, and yet that was what John had to do. He had no other option.

 

“It's been a long time since you visited here Doctor Watson” Mycroft interjected, gesturing around the wood panelled office of the Diogenes club.

 

The blonde quirked an eyebrow in surprise, having expected the older Holmes to wait for an explanation before speaking himself. “Yes, I believe the last time I saw you was just before your stupidity drove your brother off a building” he sniped, regret immediately following the use of the words as an ache flared in his own chest. “Sorry” he sighed.

 

“You do not need to remind me of my own failings Doctor Watson” Mycroft stated, a harsh edge to his tone. “But I do not believe that is why you are here today, nor why you earlier destroyed the living room of 221b. Out of courtesy to Mrs Hudson a crew has been sent to repair the damage. See that you keep your temper under control from now on”

 

“I thought I'd found all your cameras” John muttered, glaring over at the other as he remembered the entire week he'd spent scanning the dust lines of the flat to remove any monitoring devices. “Get a kick out of watching a man grieve do you?”

 

“Merely keeping an eye on my brothers one time colleague to ensure he doesn't do anything stupid.” Mycroft replied cooly. “Like try and re-enlist.” A small smirk briefly forming as he caught sight of John's shoulders tensing, knowing the doctor hated being restrained.

 

“I am not returning to Afghanistan and even if I did it would be none of your business.” He turned his gaze away for the first time, focusing upon the raindrops making their way down the window pane. It was a trick he'd leant long ago to distract his anger, something that aided him to get through hours of unending therapy sessions. He had to admit, it did help him deal with irritating situations and nothing was more irritating than Mycroft bloody Holmes.

 

“To the contrary. During life my brother expressly stated to me that I was to keep watch over of you, even in the event of his own passing and I will keep that oath even if the recipient is ungrateful for the added safety” Mycroft's took the opportunity of John's displaced attention to run an analytical gaze over the blonde. Every lost pound, sleepless night and Whiskey soaked evening easily read to the politician's mind. “Especially when he is struggling to take care of himself...”

 

“I am fine!” John snapped, head snapping around to face Mycroft, unable to disguise the anger now growing in his eyes. “I do not need you to treat me like a child! I'm sick of being pitied by people! I'm sick of being weak and useless!” That was what it boiled down to in the end, everything he and Sherlock had done together, all the people they'd saved. And no he was nothing but a 9-5 clinic doctor. Sherlock had died as a direct result of Moriarty's games and still six months on everyone believed he was a fake. The least he owed the detective...his best friend was to avenge him. His gaze rose to the others, determination blazing in his eyes. “Look. I know you cared for your brother. And I understand that you want to honour his wishes. But don't you want him to be cleared?”

 

Having kept a stoic silence during John's outburst Mycroft face finally betrayed a hint of emotion, confusion. He'd anticipated the doctor's visit to have been related to throwing accusations at him. Something the initial moments had proven. And yet remembering how protective John had been of his brother from early on he couldn't help but admire the man's dedication, not that he'd admit it. “And how exactly do you plan on achieving that Doctor Watson? You are no rival to Moriarty, his scheme had many layers, a web that spread around the globe.”

 

“I may not be a bloody genius like you three but I know how to fight Mycroft. I can take down this web, I can clear Sherlock.”. And this was the hard bit. To ask for help from this man. A man who would never forget he spoke the words. “I need your help Mycroft. I need to do this...please. If you care about your brother like deep down I think you do then please help me do this. Help me avenge Sherlock Holmes.”

 

The silence that fell upon the pair lay unbroken for a long time, the two staring a each other once more, desperation and deliberation worn upon the faces of the two. One thing Mycroft never would doubt would be John's words when it came to saving Sherlock, for better of for worse John would protect the detective till his dying day. And yet he knew what danger he would be sending him out into. The web was well trained, an army trained doctor would not be able to handle it straight away, but maybe with the right kind of training there would be a chance. “What you are suggesting is outlandish Doctor Watson, to send you into the environment would be akin to sending a newborn hare into a den of foxes. You'd be torn apart within moments. You severely underestimate Moriarty's forces. He may be gone but the rest still remain, his second in command is not to be sneered at.”

 

“Then help me!” John yelled, once more ignoring the Diogenes' rules, screw silence. “I can do this Mycroft. Trust me. Anything you make me do. Any hoops I have to jump through to get out there I will do it. Please.”

 

“My brother wouldn't take no for an answer should the situation be reversed either. I see in you he has found a kindred spirit” he sighed, pyramiding his hands in his lap. “Very well Doctor Watson. You have my aid in your quest. But first you will undergo intensive training and only after my associates pass you fit will you be allowed to pursue the web and therefore Moran himself.”

 

For the first time since he'd entered the building a smile grew upon John's face, one of both relief and satisfaction. “I wont let him down Mycroft. I will pass your tests and I will beat them” He stated firmly as he stood from his chair. “So. Where am I going for this training? Secret army base?”

 

“Of sorts. But not today. Go and rest. An associate of mine will be in touch in due course.” Gracefully he stood from his chair and straightened his suit jacket, looking as immaculate as he always did. “Now I request that you leave this building in a much quieter manner in which you entered, I do believe Councillor Deveran was mere moments from having you dragged from the premises after the racket you made upon arrival”.

 

John bit back a witty retort and nodded, his posture every inch the Captain he'd trained to be. Quickly but quietly he slipped from the room, keeping his eyes downcast and evasive of the rest of the clubs attendants, last thing he needed now was Greg's kind but pitying words.

 

Once the door shut behind the determined doctor Mycroft moved to sit behind his desk, pressing a small button below it. The distant sound of clicking heels began to grow ever closer until once more the door opened, the slight frame of Anthea slipping inside. “Yes sir?” she queried, phone held by one side as she obediently gave her employer her full attention.

 

“I need you to make a transatlantic call. It is time to call in a favour, get me Agent Fury immediately.”


	4. You've Got Another Thing Coming

_If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by, You're thinkin' like a fool cause it's a case of do or die, Out there is a fortune waitin' to be had. You think I'll let it go you're mad, You've got another thing comin'._

* * *

 

Heavy rain pattered upon the top of the sleek black car as it pulled through the dusk darkened streets of West London, it's occupant sat quietly in the back seat drumming his fingertips upon the top of his briefcase. His eyes rose to the front as the driver coughed for his attention. “We'll be arriving at the destination in less than thirty seconds time Sir”. The man smiled and nodded his understanding, twisting his head to look out of the window as the car finally pulled up to a Victorian style property.

 

The driver slipped out of the car and hurried around to open the door, opening the umbrella to cover the other as he walked him up the stairs towards the dark green door of 221b Baker Street. Agent Coulson raised his hand and opened the unlocked front door, assured by his colleague that it would be. “Thank you Mike. Wait in the car” he called back as he slipped inside the building and started up the staircase to the flat.

  
Inside the room sat a small blond male lay over the couch catching what seemed to be a restless sleep. Phil covered his mouth with his hand and coughed loudly, startling John awake. As the doctor's gun was raised defensively he simply extended his hand to the man. “Agent Phil Coulson. I am an operative for S.H.I.E.L.D” the American stated calmly.

  
  
John lowered his gun but his posture remained uneasy. “Shield? I haven't heard of you before. Why are you here?” he took the Agent's hand shaking it firmly. “And more importantly who sent you?”

  
  
“A favour was called in. I'm here to answer that call Doctor John Watson.” he stepped past and settled in Sherlock's old armchair, opening his briefcase as he sat. “Please take a seat. I'd much rather this be handled quickly I have to catch a flight back to the States in an hour.” He lay a dossier on the table and pushed it across to John as the man finally sat down. “Mycroft Holmes contacted us regarding a place on our advanced training programme. It took a good deal of persuading for Director Fury but as always Bureaucracy plays a part”

  
John leaned forwards and lifted up the file. “It's about time. I went to see him nearly two weeks ago. I was fairly certain the git had decided to simply ignore my demands. I was just about ready to go and cause some chaos for him”. He opened the file and peered at the contract that lay within it, reading through the terms quickly. “Does someone in your line of business really expect that being mind controlled can happen that often?” he quipped in amusement, the smile vanishing as he caught Coulson's serious nod. “Ah....i'll have to be careful about that one then wont I” he swallowed nervously as he lifted a pen and signed his name onto the form, pushing it back across the table to the other.

 

“Then we are pleased to welcome you aboard Doctor Watson” he reached over the table and shook John's hand once more. “You will be expected to abide by certain regulations which will be dictated to you on arrival to the base. You have five minutes to pack whatever belongings you will require for the trip.”

  
  
John leapt up from the chair and rushed to the side of the sofa where he scooped up a large backpack. “I've been waiting for this call for weeks. I'm already prepared. And you don't need to worry about my obedience. I was in the army, I know how to take commands.”

  
  
“Then we are done here. Follow me” Agent Coulson led John down the stairs and out towards the car, slipping back into it smoothly. Only as the car pulled away from the curb did he begin to speak once more. “You will be expected to perform to a high standard, S.H.I.E.L.D only accepts the best applicants.”

 

John rubbed a hand through his blond hair, silently self conscious about how his own prior injuries could affect his abilities to succeed in what sounded like an incredibly intense training schedule. But he had no other choice. If he could do this then he could help clear Sherlock's name. He had to succeed. He just had to. “I understand Agent Coulson. I will not shirk this chance. I promise you I will work hard.”

  
  
The American nodded and looked back to the front falling into silence as they wound slowly through the rush hour traffic, both men getting lost in their own thoughts. By the time they reached Heathrow the sun had long disappeared from the sky above. The car wove down a series of of back roads pulling through a private entrance and on to a private jet. Coulson slipped out wordlessly and clambered up the stairs into the jet, John following clumsily behind as he tried to ascertain any idea for where on earth they could be heading. He'd been hoping that the flight board could give him some clue but that plan had gone by the wayside. The pair buckled themselves into two high backed seats as the solo flight attendant ran through the emergency procedures.

  
  
“Nice plane” John said after a moment, at a loss for any other conversation started with the obviously important man currently seated beside him. “Is it yours?” he asked curiously.

  
  
“No. This is way beyond my pay grade. It's Stark technology. Top of the range.” Coulson answered as the plane began taxi towards the runway. “One of few in the world. It does help to have him on board...sometimes” he smirked a little as he thought of the eccentric inventor. God knows if it wasn't for Pepper then S.H.I.E.L.D would never get the billionaire to do anything.

  
  
John's eyes widened in shock at the response. Stark, the Tony Stark, Iron Man. He swallowed back the questions and turned his eyes back to the window to watch as the plane took off, taking him from London for what could be the last time. Whatever Mycroft had signed him up for was definitely bigger than huge and this was a chance he most definitely wasn't going to let pass.


	5. One Day More

_I will join these people's heroes, I will follow where they go. I will learn their little Secrets, I will know the things they know._  

* * *

 

Flying. It had never been a favourite of John's. Well, not since his army days. On his third week stationed in Helmand he'd seen a plane blown clear out of the sky upon take off, it had left him more than a little jumpy about the whole scenario. Normally he'd have a little drink and try to relax, but not today. No, he wanted to keep a clear head for whatever strange situation was about to unravel itself to him.  


Raising his head he looked around the jet, the small section in which he waited now empty save but himself, Coulson having disappeared into a back room on a business call. Curiousity burned within him at the source of the call, God how he would love to know about these superheroes running around the country, the sources of these fascinating stories he'd been reading all year. It excited him to think of, heck he was on a plane produced by Tony Stark's technology—post artillery production—the only other time he'd come across was the guns in Afghanistan. But this, this was amazing. A huge screen covered one wall, something John had discovered played everything and anything he could want to watch. He could even video call back to Britain if he desired.

 

At the sound of the door behind him opening John turned his attention back to the front, returning his mind from distraction. Coulson slid silently into his own seat and belted up only then turning his attention to John. “We'll be touching down very soon” he stated in tandem with the plane starting its descent.

  
John raised an eyebrow in confusion, the last time he'd looked out of the window they had been above the deepest blue ocean, no land visible at all. And sure enough when he glanced through the window once more the sea was all that was visible below. “Where are we landing?” he asked, of course he didn't anticipate an exact location what with secrecy, but perhaps a country at least. The silence that followed left him sighing. Bloody governments.

 

His eyes remained fixed outwards as the plane lowered through the sky constantly searching for their intended location. Only as they were merely a few thousand feet above sea level did he spot the large aircraft carrier just up ahead. Definitely secret military base he thought. High level too. Inside his heart raced with excitement the adrenaline beginning to pump as he took a step closer to avenging Sherlock.

 

“Welcome to the S.H.I.E.L.D Helicarrier Doctor Watson.” Coulson finally stated as the plane touched down, stairs immediately being brought up for their exit. “Follow me. Walk quickly, it's about to get very cold.”

  
John's eyebrows furrowed as he unbuckled himself and—after retrieving his bags—followed after the mysterious agent, hiding the wince from the pain shooting through his aching leg. The complex was certainly awe-inspiring, state of the art compartments linking off a series of interlocking walkways. Even as they walked quickly he made certain to take a good glance round, outwardly he'd argue that he—as a military man—was mapping out potential routes for an emergency exit, secretly though he knew that he was looking out for any signs of these peculiar superheroes.

 

Alas it was not to be, the tour coming to an end too soon as they stepped onto the bridge. Though the sight that awaited the doctor was by no means underwhelming. Without a word to Coulson he stepped up towards the huge windows that covered the front of the area noting the clouds surrounding them. “We are in the air” he stated almost dumbly.

  
  
“This is the new recruit?” A sceptical voice declared, his uncovered eye looking upon John in a judgmental manner. “He's wearing knitwear Coulson and you want us to send him out against one of the most powerful criminal syndicates in the world.”

 

Coulson's attempt to speak was cut off by John turning to face the new arrival. “I would respect that you speak to me directly if you plan on making derogatory assumptions as to my strength of character” he stated, walking up and extending his hand. Doctor John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers”

 

Fury's took the hand and firmly shook impressed by the man's reaction. Cool, calm and collected. “Director Nick Fury. Coulson informs me that you are here to train up to take down the Moriarty syndicate.”  
  
  
“Yes” he nodded, pulling his hand back. “It is a quest which I am determined to see through. I owe it to a friend. Give me a chance and I will not let you down”

  
  
Fury fell silent, eyes running over John once more, reading the determined lines upon his face, the fight weaving through his body. “All I know is I get this motherfucker phoning me to call in favours. If you've come up here to try and play the hero without doing the work then I suggest you take your ass home now.”  
  
  
“I assure you I am fully committed to this” John repeated, body growing rigid with irritation at Fury's put downs. “I would appreciate if you give me a chance to prove myself before you make a judgement sir...”

 

A small smirk rose upon the director's lips at the snippy tone which slipped from John's lips. “Then welcome aboard Doctor Watson.” he replied, turning and stalking towards the door only to pause briefly on the threshold. “For now...”

 

“Is he always that irritating?” John asked as the leather coat swirled around the corner, evoking memories of a similar stubborn man.

 

“Off the record...yes” Coulson answered. “Now, let me introduce you to your trainers. This way Doctor Watson.”

 

John following quickly, irritation making way as the pulse of adrenaline began to race inside him. He would succeed, he wouldn't allow himself to fail this. He would be sure to prove Fury, Mycroft and anyone else that doubted him wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is taking so long to update. Have had a busy few weeks. Hoping to be able to update quicker now. Thank you to everyone who gives this a read. :)


	6. Carry On My Wayward Son

_Carry on my wayward son, There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest,Don't you cry no more._

* * *

 

It was undeniably an agony. A strain more painful then he had felt in a long, long while. The ache radiating from the scar tissue of his gunshot wound right down into the hard dense bone below. Cursing quietly to himself John raised his head to look up at the woman responsible for his pain, her sharp jab to his shoulder almost rendering him incapacitated. Almost, but not quite. Stubbornly he rose to his full height refusing to give her the satisfaction of rubbing the pained flesh.

  
The red head smirked a little as she once more took up a fighting stance, though a brief flicker of emotion betrayed just a hint of being impressed. She had expected the jab to floor the human, to have him throwing in the towel already as many had before. But no, he stood ready for more. It was admirable. "First lesson. Never hold off. Do not think to show mercy due to the size or gender of your opponent." With the words Natasha sent a kick firmly into John's stomach sending him flying to the floor.

  
John groaned audibly, unable to stop his body from curling in on itself defensively. God his chivalry was most definitely wavering, though the idea of hitting a woman still remained utterly repulsive to him. He couldn't hit back. He wouldn't...Shaking his head he stumbled his way back to his feet and raised his arms upwards in a defensive posture, cautiously watching Natasha's movements.

  
"You will die if you don't listen to me" Natasha warned, not hesitating to throw several hard punches at John's head and body, all blocked by the doctor. "You won't get praise for being merciful out there." With a slight twist of her body she sent a knee colliding into his undefended hip with some force. As his hands shifted to hold the pained area she used his distraction to clatter her fist hard into his face. No point going easy on him. If he wanted to do this crazy plan he would need to be prepared.

  
Once more John lay in a crumpled heap upon the ground, arms wrapped tight around himself. Focus. Calm. He bit down hard upon his lip trying to refrain from letting the pain render him unconscious or failing. It took considerably longer for him to raise to his feet again but he managed it, forcing his body to stand defensively once more.

  
From up in the rafters Hawkeye's sharp eyes widened. Man this guy could take a beating. Either that or he had a death wish. Even still, he admired his stamina. As Natasha went in for another attack he jumped onto the ladder and scrambled down to the floor just in time for John to be sent crashing to the floor once more. "Yo Nat maybe it's time to give cuddles here a break. It's his first day."

  
Natasha rolled her eyes a little as Hawkeye's approached though a fond smile briefly flickered across her red stained lips. "You think the Moriarty network is gonna cut him some slack because he's a beginner? They will tear him to shreds  
Clint. Literally."

  
Wincing a little at the thought Clint shifted fully into her eyeline. "Still. They're hardly gonna be invading the helicarrier to take out Tin Tin."

  
"The name is John." The blond interjected as he forced his way up from the floor once more. "And I'm not giving up. I can do this.  
Come at me" he raised his fists in front of his body, tongue flicking out to soothe his now bleeding lip.

  
Both Clint and Natasha turned to face John equally startled to see that he'd managed to rise from the Black Widow's trademark move. "Man have you got a pain kink or are you just as crazy. The Hulk is less of a madman than you."

  
Irritated John looked up at Clint, eyes narrowing at the muscular man. "I am not crazy." He stated, voice thick with anger. "I have to do this. I need to. And I will. I won't fail in this. I owe it to him. Now come at me."

  
Shrugging in defeat Hawkeye stepped to the side once more, crossing his arms across his chest as Natasha attacked her target once more, though John managed to get several more blocks in as she did so. Clint raised a hand to his ear and tapped the communicator. "Couldson you might want to get a med team on standby, your new boy is taking a hell of a beating. I'm half tempted to wrap him up in cotton wool. Or maybe knitwear would be more appropriate."

  
"We have our orders Agent Barton. Doctor Watson is to be trained until he asks to leave the programme. But do step in if you feel he is on the edge of a serious injury."

  
Snorting Hawkeye replied his understanding and returned to watch the fight, John's face now coated in blood from a large gash to his left eyebrow. "Alright Nat. He needs to get that stitched up or he won't be able to see let alone fight."

  
Sparing a glance for her partner Natasha moved to offer a hand to John, dragging him up to his feet. "There is a thin line between bravery and being an idiot. Make sure you keep that in mind. You better hope this guy you're fighting for is worth the cost."

  
Without a pause John nodded. "He saved me at a time when I thought all was lost. Whatever it takes I will do it." He straightened up to a soldiers posture though his body screamed in agonised protest.

  
"Tomorrow. Here. 1400 hours." She stated, swiftly turning and stalking from the room.

  
As the door closed behind her John looked up towards Clint. "Is this the part where you tell me she's a pussycat really and that she's just trying to help?" He asked.

  
Clint laughed loudly and shook his head. "No. Nat is absolutely lethal. Cross her and you're a dead man." At the sound of the groan that rose from John he clapped his hand upon the man's shoulder. "But she is trying to help. Work hard and keep focused and she'll get you there. Now go and get an ice bath. They feel like absolute hell but damn they work."

  
"Yeah. Thanks. See you tomorrow I guess." He raised a weak smile as Clint winked and slipped off after Natasha. Only as he was left alone did he allow himself to slouch over, breathing becoming slightly laboured. In all his years in the army he had never come across anyone as tough as the woman allocated to be his trainer. It was going to be long, hard few months for certain.


	7. Bad Moon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to update! I've been busy then sick then away! Gah sorry. I hope to be able to update more often now.

_I see the bad moon arising.  I see trouble on the way.  I see earthquakes and lightnin'. I see bad times. today._  

* * *

 

The sound of an explosion roused John from his slumber, his eyes flashing wide as he bolted upwards. He raised a hand to wipe at the corners of his eyes impatiently, the last thing he needed was to run into Fury and give him more reasons to think he wasn't worthy. He wound his arms around himself as tried to push back the memories of gunfire and bombs which often plagued his unconscious mind. God, even after so long how could he not find a way to deal with them. But he had....once upon a time. Sherlock had played for him, the violin had always soothed away the nigh terrors.

Cursing he began to rise to his feet, only then did he notice the smoke beginning to fill the room followed by several more loud bangs. The blond cursed and hurried to dress, pulling on a pair black trousers and a padded black jacket. Christ, this wasn't a dream and it definitely wasn't a drill. He paused to gather his pistol and a knife from his desk before he raced out into the corridors.

It took all of John's self control not to drop down to aid the first injured staff member he came across, a young male with a large gash to his left thigh, though he knew it wasn't a serious injury from looks alone he couldn't help the small pang of guilt that rose inside him at ignoring someone in need. But that wasn't his duty now. He was on here to fight, to help to defend the base against threats.

Oxygen burned his lungs with the pace of his run, John ducking and diving under and between several fallen support beams as he raced towards whatever carnage awaited. The first attacker he came across was dispatched in a cruder manner than he'd have liked, his hunters knife drawing a sharp slice over the man's throat, severing open muscle and windpipe alike. He had just a brief moment to worry about why that thought didn't trouble him before he spotted several enemies onrushing, their bodies and faces obscured by full black body suits. It took several rounds per man to kill the three. Damn it. Not good enough, he needed to improve or he would never last against Moriarty's network.  
  
  
The sound of yelling up ahead snapped him out of his trance, spurring him on once more. Christ could Clint and Natasha have chosen a worse time to head to Budapest. Though he most definitely was going to never let Clint live down his boasting over the Hellicariers impenetrable defences. If he lived that was. Finally rounding the corner he felt pain flare across his chest, a bullet slamming into him from just down the hallway. Fuck. John shuffled till he was obscured by the corner of the wall, only then did he reach up and fiddle with the torn fabric of his jacket. At least he knew the answer to his question now. Did bullet proof material really stop the pain. He rubbed at the sore spot with a huff. That would definitely bruise. Heck, what's one more bruise, he'd looked like a patchwork quilt every day since his first training session with the others.

As a bullet ricocheted off the wall beside him John took the opportunity to glance around the corridor. Only the one, he just had to time it right then. Draw his fire then attack when he was reloading. Closing his eyes tightly he took several long, deep breaths, drawing enough oxygen into his lungs for the sprint he anticipated. Adrenaline flooded him as he launched up from the ground, pumping through his veins as he raced around the corner. Oh God, Oh God this is it he thought as the other man raised his gun. _Don't just see, observe._ Hearing the deep baritone in his mind struck a new wave of determination in his voice. The sight before him widened. No longer did he just see a man crouching behind a crate. Now he took in everything around him the blood stain at the bottom of the crate, an injured man then. The dropped cartridges around him, not a fantastic marksman then if he is expending so much ammo. Logic indicated that he must be qualified in hand to hand combat then, why else would he be here. Then he mustn't engage him up close.

  
The gun raising once more up ahead him had blood rushing to John's ears, the sound of the pulsing blocking out everything around him. Here came the onslaught. He just had to time it right. He raised his own pistol up as the man stepped out from behind the crate pushing down the trigger in a swift motion. For a moment the world stood still, the bullet streaking through the air to its target. The doctor took in a sharp inhale as he watched blood blossom from between the man's eyes, the crimson liquid splattering the walls around him as he twisted crudely and slumped to the floor. John had only a second to look at the dead enemy before two more faces came into view.

  
He had just enough focus to hold his finger off the trigger as he took in the familiar races of Fury and Maria Hill. The woman raised an appreciative eyebrow at the dead body lay at John's feet, impressed by his accuracy. “Nice shot.” She quipped, patting him on the shoulder as she hurried on down the corridor yelling orders to various appearing S.H.I.E.L.D agents.

  
Fury holstered his own gun as John lowered his, his eye narrowing in an analytical fashion. “Seems there may be some hope for you yet Captain Watson.” he mused as he stepped over the body to stand beside the blond. The slightest hint of a smirk began to rise upon his lips after a moment. “Coulson will tell you where the mops and buckets are. Up here you clean up your own messes.” His black coat swirled around him as he turned away and stalked out of sight.

  
John groaned audibly, glancing around to see the chaos he'd left behind. So much for a restful night whilst his trainers were away then. He holstered his gun and stowed his knife, turning back to the body of the recently killed enemy and gripped him by the legs. No point putting it off then he decided. Well, at least he'd have a story to tell the others when they returned.


	8. What You Own

  
  
_Don't breathe too deep, don't think all day. Dive into work, drive the other way. That drip of hurt, that pint of shame goes away. Just play the game._

* * *

  
  
So much for thrilling them with his story John mused as he looked between Natasha and Clint in shock, spinning his cup of tea between his hands absently. "How the hell did you manage to cause that much chaos in two days?!"  
  
  
Natasha smirked and leaned back in her chair, glancing around the slowly emptying cafeteria. "Clint is like a magnet for trouble. Besides it wasn't that bad, it was quite entertaining to say the least. We've had worse scrapes."  
  
  
"Worse?" Clint moved a large ice pack from his temple uncovering a large gash currently marring his temple. "Please enlighten me to how that was fun?"  
  
  
"You're such a drama queen" Natasha mumbled into her coffee, smirking when Clint's eyebrows raised at her. "It's not like it's the worst injury you've had. And I doubt it'll be the last." She shrugged.

  
"Yeah, not teamed with you it won't." He muttered, hissing in pain when she deliberately patted a large gash covering a few inches of his right side. "You're a masochist." He grumbled.

  
"I'm Russian." She answered jokingly, repeating the action. "And not a giant baby." She added as she turned to look at John. "It's not like you've had a quiet time, it takes a lot of balls to do what you did."

  
As John opened his mouth to protest modesty Clint leaned forwards to cut in. "She's right man, a lot of civilians would have hidden under their beds and waited for the danger to pass. You impressed Fury and that takes some doing."

  
"Impressed? He made me cleanup the entire north sectors corridors." John groaned, looking down at his blistered right thumb. "And I thought cleaning up after Sherlock was bad..." His smile slid into a frown as his mind fixed upon his lost friend, how was it possible to miss cleaning brains from the blender on a regular basis? And yet he did miss it. He missed those little arguments that followed. He missed the apology takeaway that Sherlock would buy later in the evening - even forcing himself to eat it on he occasions that he'd really done something bad.

  
"Was that guy really as crazy as everyone suggests?" Clint asked, raising his hands in a placating manner at the look John shot him. "What I mean is...well even S.H.I.E.L.D had a file on him just in case he ever went rogue..."

  
"He was eccentric." John responded. "Eccentric and wonderful. Heck, most days I'd spend the time cleaning up his messes but it was the happiest I've ever been." A small smile formed upon his lips as he spoke, the blond too distracted in his speech to notice the way Natasha's eyebrow rose in realisation. "He was my best friend, anyone who ever thinks he told a lie is an absolute fool. Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man I've ever known. You guys have met heroes and God's, he was more than that...he was..." John trailed off, what word could he use to describe the whirlwind of a man who had come into his life and saved him when he was at his lowest, made him of use again, made him love. Somewhat dumbly he looked up at their gazes. "He was Sherlock." He shrugged.

  
"Sounds like a misunderstood guy." Natasha said quietly, leaning forwards to pull a knife from her boot , starting to peel an apple. "Hey, I think all of us have had that at one time or another. It's in the job description."  
  
  
John eyed the apple wearily remembering too well the remnants he'd found after Moriarty's visit to the flat. "I should...I should get back to my bunk, I should get some rest apparently I'm on my first off base job in the next couple of days." Coughing awkwardly he pushed up from the table and stalked quickly off, reminiscing had certainly left him feeling saddened. What he wouldn't give to wake up and find the detective causing chaos in the kitchen of 221b but he knew that could never be.

  
He made it halfway back towards his room before changing his mind. If he had wanted to sit around and mope he would be back home, not on this crazy vengeance mission. Yes, he should sleep but he could damn well bet his enemies would be training non-stop to keep on top form. He should do the same. Besides, it's not like a short spell at the gun range was going to exhaust him too much.

  
It took him little over ten minutes to take the necessary turns and staircases to reach the practice range, it buried deep within the confines of the ship. On his initial tour he had though it was somewhat of a disappointment, to the naked eye it looked nothing more than a cold steel bunker. That was until Clint brought him down for training a few weeks into his stay and shot an explosive arrow straight at one of the target mannequins. As the limbs flew chaotically around the room he couldn't help but notice that the floor and walls remained completely unmarred. He had certainly grown much more impressed after that.

  
Since then, on occasion he too had practiced with explosive ammunition, most often grenades but on one memorable day with a bazooka - one of Natasha's ideas. It had been enjoyable until Fury had walked in and been smacked in the face with a flying arm from one of their targets. The dressing down had left him wary of testing with the more heavy duty weaponry. Though he supposed it would be hand to hand combat and short range guns which he would find more use out in the field.

  
His hand reached down to his trousers pulling the gun from his holster. All else wiped from John's mind as he aimed the pistol at the target and fired, the bullet burying itself in the centre of the head. He could only hope that his aim would be as sure when he fired upon Moran himself.


	9. Let It Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus guys. Got a new job just before Christmas so things have been hectic!

_It’s funny how some distance makes everything seem small_   
_And the fears that once controlled me can't get to me at all._

* * *

Smoke swirled around the warehouse creating an impenetrable darkness, a darkness punctuated only by the sounds of gunfire.This hadn't been the plan, no the job was supposed to be secured by the Alpha team before the Beta team would go in to restrain any survivors - bringing them in for questioning. A sizeable explosion had put an end to that plan. Of the twelve members of the alpha's, seven had been killed instantly, the beta's had to go in without support.

  
John slipped quietly along the wall, keeping low to the ground to keep the smoke from his lungs whilst his eyes searched constantly for any sign of friend or foe. It was chaos, and it was familiar. Even as the gunfire increased in volume he did not panic, instead his veins flowed with adrenaline. Mycroft was right he did miss it - not that he'd ever admit that to the man himself.

  
A sudden blur of movement across his vision had him racing forwards, diving quickly behind a stone pillar just as a grenade exploded, the object exactly where he had stood mere moments before. That alone should and probably would've terrified most, but for John it simply sent a flood of adrenaline through his veins sparking his desire to aid his comrades stuck within the confines of this war torn hell.

  
Through the adrenaline fuelled haze he forced himself to focus. There were lives that he needed to save. That was his job today. Be a doctor to in need of his skills and restrain the enemy, or to kill if necessary.

  
Hearing a yelp of pain some way of to his right he raised his head. Carefully he rose up from his cover and began to move towards them - keeping his body low to the ground as he moved. He kept his gun raised cautiously till the moment he spotted the SHIELD insignia upon the man's bicep. "Hey, Shh. It's okay." He soothed as he dropped beside the distressed man. John's trained eyes ran over the injured male carefully, wincing when he spotted his leg. The entirety of his right thigh was coated in blood from the shrapnel tear at it's upper part. "I apologise but this is going to hurt." He said as he took a bandage from his bag and settled between the man's thighs. As gently as he could he rose the leg over his own and wound the material as tightly as he could over the injured flesh feeling pity as the man screeched in pain. "Shhh." He soothed, covering the man's mouth and glancing around. "I'm going to cover you. I need you to crawl out. There are men waiting outside to help you."

  
As the man nodded John shifted back, raising his gun as the other began to crawl. Hearing gunfire to his left he turned and fired hearing a cry of pain drift from the second bullet he fired. He gritted his teeth and pushed back the initial guilt instead focusing on keeping watch over his patient, his eyes flickering between the door and smoky warehouse frequently till finally the injured man disappeared beyond his sight.

  
Four remaining. John only hoped they could be found and helped free before their enemies could reach them. Three bullets were expended in the following few moments as John attempted to rise up a level onto the balcony, two fired calmly into one man and the other bullet through the head of another enemy soldier. How many could  
Be in here? It was certainly an ambush. Ten? More? This group didn't seem to waste forces, they seemed to be men hired on their skills rather than many average gunmen hired. Likely to be less then. He shook his head to clear the deductions ignoring the pang of pain the memories brought to him.

  
His heart sank as he turned the corner and found a blood covered SHIELD agent curled lifelessly in the corner, his pale hands pressed to a still bleeding wound in his stomach. His experiences in Afghanistan left him certain that the poor bloke had no chance of survival being hit square in the stomach as he had been. Sighing he bent down and closed the empty eyes in respect. Eight dead..

  
"One dead." He reported into the small microphone which lay attached to the collar of his camouflages. The resulting feedback of his earpiece made him wince, A female voice responding several moments later.

  
"Two more agents have been aided out. One remaine in there. Find them and then evacuate. The heat in there is compromising the structure of the building." Agent Hill responded.

  
"Noted." John murmured, glancing anxiously at the surrounding walls and quickening his pace. Stupidly by switching his attention from the dangers around him he didn't notice the footsteps behind him till he felt a knife swipe downwards and slice a gash into his shoulder. Hissing in pain he span on instinct and drove his fist into the man's solar plexus and sending him crashing to the ground. His left leg swung forwards, the towel of his boot colliding smoothly with his jaw to render his enemy unconscious. "Bastard."

  
Raising one hand he covered his shoulder wincing as he felt the warm sticky liquid seeping through his camouflages. "Always the same bloody one." He hissed in irritation. Though he knew he could not give up. He needed to help the single remaining hostage out before he'd even consider escaping himself. Harshly he took off his own belt and fastened a makeshift tourniquet around his injured limb. It would do for now.

  
The smoke and fire became increasingly intense as he found his way back to the lower levels, the heat making it feel as though his skin was setting ablaze. He didn't have long left before he'd pass out from the combination of the smoke and blood loss. God he hated what that meant...he would have to abandon the lost agent. No. No he would sooner lose himself than at least not try and save another. He hadn't been able to help Sher...he wouldn't fail another ally.

  
Feeling a fresh wave of adrenaline rush through his body John powered on through the rapidly deteriorating building. Room after room appeared empty till finally he found a pained body curled up in the corner of a small closet. It hardly surprised him as the injured agent span and pointed their gun at him despite the obvious pain on the woman's face. "I'm John. I'm S.H.I.E.l.D. I'm a doctor and I'm here to help."

  
The woman eyed him warily for several long moments before she lowered her gun. "Mary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not going to be a Mary/John story. As much as I adored Amanda's portrayal of Mary this is definitely going to be end game Johnlock.


End file.
